A Clash of Lions

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘It no longer matters,’ Umfraville said. ‘Whatever they were, we no longer intend to obey them. Clennell is dead, but Peter de Lisle has still to be avenged.’

  De Lisle turned. ‘You accepted me as your commander once,’ he said. ‘Will you do so again?’

  There was a moment of silence. No one remembered his illness now; all they saw was a proud old veteran standing before them. Umfraville knelt, and so did Wake, and after them every man of the hundreds gathered around. De Lisle held up his bloody sword, the hilts and guards like a cross against the dark sky. ‘We ride to join the archbishop,’ he said. ‘To horse, gentlemen. We are almost out of time.’

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 13th of October, 1346

  Evening

  The gates were closing when Tiphaine, Mauro and Warin reached Newcastle, but they used the herald’s name to talk their way past the guards. The Blyth house was dark and silent, and a frightened servant told them Lady Mary had gone to stay with Alderman Murton at his house on Newgate. Puzzled, Tiphaine and the others made their way there.

  Tiphaine was still wearing the servant’s gown in which she had escaped nine days ago – God, she thought, was it only nine days? – filthy with mud and with the hem torn off, and the doorkeeper at Murton’s house refused to admit her. Shivering with exhaustion and grief and cold, she stood in the street and screamed Mary’s name, and after a moment Lady Mary herself came hurrying out, scooping her into a tight embrace while the doorkeeper stared in astonishment. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said quickly. ‘Mauro, Warin, come with me.’

  In the hall, before Mary could speak, Tiphaine poured out her story, Murton and his wife listening in wide-eyed silence. Only at the end did Tiphaine recollect herself and become aware of her surroundings. ‘Why are you here, Mary? Where is Master Blyth?’

  ‘Gone,’ said Lady Mary. She related her own story. ‘As I suspected, he had a route of escape already planned. We think he got away downriver by boat, and picked up a larger ship there. My guess is that he has gone to Bruges.’

  ‘His treachery is clear from his account books,’ said Murton. ‘He has been planning and preparing for at least a decade. Unfortunately, we don’t know the names of his confederates.’

  ‘We can guess at some of them,’ said Mary. ‘Hugh de Tracey and the late unlamented Gilbert, for a start. And Rollond de Brus, of course. That takes us to John of Hainault and the mysterious man from the north.’

  ‘But what do they want?’ asked Egidia. ‘Who are they conspiring against, and why?’

  ‘All of us,’ said Tiphaine. ‘The kings and queens and popes and bishops, of course, but ultimately they want power over all of us. Why? To show that they can. Brus is preparing to seize power in Scotland, not because he wants to be king, but to show the rest of Europe how much power he has. He and the man from the north want to attract others like themselves as allies, to replace those that were killed last summer and to extend their reach across Europe, perhaps even beyond.’

  She looked down at her dirty hands. ‘The preceptor of the Knights of Saint John is dead. The king of Scotland is to be assassinated. According to Brus, there is a new plot to kill the king of England. No one is safe from these men.’

  ‘Unless we stop them,’ said Lady Mary.

  ‘Yes.’ Tiphaine raised her head again. ‘I must see this through, Mary. I’m going to join the English army.’

  Lady Mary nodded. ‘We shall ride in the morning,’ she said.

  28

  Stonehaugh, 14th of October, 1346

  Early morning

  The march of the Disinherited from Stonehaugh never became part of the folklore of the borders, because no man who made that journey ever spoke of it again. But the survivors lived with its memory etched on their hearts.

  They had made their preparations well. Along with weapons and armour they had provisions, bags of oats for the horses, water bottles, packs of bread and dried beef for the men, and these hung from the pommels of every man’s saddle. Packhorses carried more supplies. They could march and fight for several days, Merrivale reckoned.

  Far to the south the sky glowed red as Hexham and the surrounding villages burned. De Lisle, Umfraville, Wake and the herald gathered around a map lit by torches held overhead. ‘It’s a waiting game now,’ de Lisle said. ‘The Scots could advance on either Newcastle or Durham, but if they move too far, Zouche could come up from Barnard Castle to hit them in the flank or rear. If Zouche moves up too quickly, the Scots could get past him and strike into Teesdale, like old Bruce did back in ’28. Both sides will sit where they are and see who moves first.’

  He looked at the others. ‘And that gives us our opportunity. If we ride hard, we can be at Barnard Castle before the Scots can overtake us. Our first step is to reach Corbridge. We’ll seize the bridge there and cross the Tyne.’

  ‘The whole Scottish army is now at Hexham,’ Umfraville warned. ‘That’s very close to Corbridge. We could well meet with opposition.’

  De Lisle shook his head. ‘Speed and surprise, gentlemen. We’ll hit them hard, cross the bridge and over the river before they can recover. The bridge is narrow and we can only cross it in column. Wake, you’re first; Umfraville will cover you and follow. I’ll bring up the rear with my own men and Clennell’s. They have something to prove, I think.’

  ‘I’ll ride with you, Sir Robert,’ the herald said.

  The old man looked at him for a moment. ‘I’d be glad of that.’

  * * *

  They waited until after midnight to begin their ride; de Lisle wanted to reach Corbridge at dawn. There were no trumpets or fanfares, just a single word passed in the dark. There was no moon now, only the sheen of starlight to show them the way. They rode down the burn in a long jingling column, fording the North Tyne and climbing up onto the desolate moors beyond. The night wind had a cold edge to it, a reminder that autumn was not far away.

  High on the moors they came to the Via Regia, the old royal road that connected England and Scotland, built a thousand years ago by the Romans and traversed by armies ever since. Turning south, they rode in column over the hills and down the long slope towards the valley of the Tyne. De Lisle rode beside Merrivale, never slackening his pace. Only once did he speak, his voice taut with pain.

  ‘Did my boy serve you well?’

  Merrivale thought again about Liddel Strength. All the high hopes, he thought again, all the bright promise; all the wit and intelligence and selfless courage, gone. But he would not share his own pain with the boy’s father, not now.

  ‘He was everything I hoped he would be, and more,’ the herald said. ‘He did you great credit, sir. You raised him well.’

  ‘Aye,’ said de Lisle. He did not speak again.

  Dawn bloomed coldly over the hills. Away to the west, Hexham was still an inferno. More fires glowed closer at hand as farms and byres burned. They saw the gleam of the river in the pale light, and then the houses and towers of Corbridge, the long span of the bridge beyond. Fires were breaking out in that town as well, smoke and sparks rising.

  A messenger rode back from Wake’s company in the vanguard. ‘The enemy hold the town, my lord.’

  ‘Tell Lord Wake to go in hard and fast,’ de Lisle said. ‘He is to stop for nothing until he reaches the bridge. Instruct Sir Gilbert to protect his company while they cross the river. Make it so.’

  They urged their horses to a gallop, flying down the long road towards the town. Wake’s men disappeared into the smoke. Merrivale heard the first shouts and the clatter of weapons breaking out, but the column did not slacken speed. Beside him de Lisle rode grimly, reins clenched in hands bent like claws. ‘You should draw your sword, Sir Robert,’ the herald said.

  ‘Later,’ said de Lisle.

  Umfraville’s company were into the town now, and de Lisle and Merrivale followed them. Houses burned everywhere, flames roaring upwards, spooking the horses. Bodies lay in the streets, English and Scots, killed in the fighting as the earlier companies passed through. Fr
om ahead came the continuous din of swords smashing on metal, men shouting and screaming.

  They reached the town square. A pele tower next to the church was still holding out, its garrison shooting at the Scots and throwing stones down on their heads. De Lisle waved a hand and his men closed up around him, driving into the Scots and spearing some, throwing others bodily from their horses. Scottish lances stabbed back, and the man next to Merrivale screamed, holding his neck, and then rolled out of the saddle. Another lance point hit de Lisle’s breastplate and broke into splinters. The Disinherited pressed on, a solid wedge of horsemen driving the Scots out of the square and into the burning lanes beyond.

  More fighting here; Merrivale saw the red heart banner of Douglas of Liddesdale through the smoke. Where there was pillage and burning, Liddesdale would not be far away… More bodies in the streets, some of them townsmen and women who had not reached the shelter of the pele, and Merrivale had a flash of memory, the dead woman and her child at Harbottle. Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye, the Black Douglas shall not get ye… Now Douglas had seen them and turned his horse towards them, charging through a street turned into a tunnel of flame, raising his sword, and now finally de Lisle drew his own sword and spurred to meet him. Merrivale held his breath; Douglas’s first blow fell on de Lisle’s shield, and de Lisle calmly leaned down and stabbed Douglas’s horse. The animal reared up in pain, Douglas cursing and fighting to stay in the saddle, and then the rest of de Lisle’s men came shouting behind him, driving Douglas back through the flames.

  A curtain of sparks drifted glowing across the road, the dark silhouette of another armoured man coming through them; Umfraville. ‘Wake is across the river, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Get your own men over the bridge. We’ll hold Douglas back.’

  They held, against a series of darting, vicious, disorganised attacks, little parties of hobelars charging through the smoke and smashing against the iron wall of de Lisle’s men. Merrivale watched them closely, but Clennell’s former retainers never wavered; men fell dead and wounded from the saddle, but the line held. Jamie Hall rode up, his jack and face stained with smoke and blood. ‘Sir Gilbert’s men have crossed, my lord.’

  ‘Good.’ De Lisle turned to his own company. ‘Every second man, ride to the bridge. The rest of you, hold the line.’

  Half the company turned and rode for the bridge. The rest stood their ground, coughing and spluttering in the smoke, trying to calm their horses. They could see the Scots dimly, holding back now. ‘They’ve lost their appetite, by God,’ said a hobelar.

  ‘They’re under orders,’ de Lisle said. ‘Douglas can’t stop us now, and he doesn’t want to lose any more men. They’ll regroup and come after us, never fear.’

  He looked along the line. ‘Cross the bridge in file. Slowly, now. We don’t want to tire the horses.’

  They crossed the bridge at a walking pace in the light of the rising sun, watched by the Scots and the defenders of the pele tower. The latter would have to be left behind, but from what Merrivale had seen they appeared to be putting up a good resistance. And de Lisle was right; Douglas would almost certainly abandon the town to pursue them, once he had reorganised his men.

  They crossed the southern floodplain of the Tyne and rode up the steep hills behind, reaching the high moors again. Here they left the old road and turned due south, riding on through the windswept morning. Some of the men were burned and bleeding; one fell unconscious from his horse, hitting the ground with a hard thud. Two of his fellows lifted him and tied him across his saddle, and they rode on. De Lisle turned from time to time, watching the horizon. Wake had posted scouts and flank guards, but the old man was still uneasy.

  He was right. An hour after leaving Corbridge the Scots struck again. De Lisle’s men could see them coming from a long way off, light armoured hobelars and heavy men-at-arms with painted shields under the banner of Bruce of Carrick. ‘Now we push hard,’ said de Lisle, and they picked up speed to a canter, Wake swinging right and Umfraville veering left while the Scots closed on de Lisle’s rearguard… and de Lisle waved his hand in a circular motion, and Wake’s and Umfraville’s companies wheeled like birds of prey and came sweeping back, attacking the Scots from either flank. The manoeuvre almost worked, but Carrick had seen the danger and was turning away; a few of his men, slow to move, were caught and killed but the rest fell back. Wake and Umfraville turned too and the march continued, the Scots trailing them at a distance with more companies coming up from behind.

  In late morning under a hazy sun the Disinherited rode down into the valley of the Derwent. Here the Scots attacked again, Carrick’s men stiffened with more men-at-arms under the Earl of Moray. They had fewer men than de Lisle, but they saw their advantage as the English forded the river and charged home, screaming their battle cries. Moray was in their midst, standing up in his stirrups and slashing around him with his sword, and the waters of the Derwent turned red as horses and men fell in the shallows. Once again Wake and Umfraville turned and launched their men into the fighting, and sheer weight of numbers pushed Carrick and Moray out of the river and back up the slope. Raging and cursing, Moray dismounted and hurled his sword to the ground while the battered companies of the Disinherited assembled once more and rode away up the far side of the valley.

  ‘Are they following?’ de Lisle asked.

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘They’re turning back.’

  The old man’s voice creaked with exhaustion and pain. ‘Robert Keith, the Marischal, has called them back. Keith understands tactics. He won’t want his men scattered across the north of England.’

  ‘Then we could halt and rest,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘No,’ said de Lisle. ‘No rest. We’ll water the horses when we reach the Wear, and move on. If the men are hungry, they can eat in the saddle.’

  The sun passed its zenith. They rode on through the bleak, empty hills, the wind whistling around them, passing occasional tumbledown farms and barns abandoned after the Great Famine twenty years before. Sometimes the wounded men groaned with pain, but after a while even they fell silent, too weak and exhausted to make a sound. Birds circled overhead, buzzards and hobbies drifting on the currents of air.

  Another deep valley lay ahead, the Wear. Scouts rode back to give the all-clear. Exhausted men and horses rode down the slope to the river bubbling in its stony bed. They let the horses drink, but sparingly, and gave them a few handfuls of oats before they mounted, forded the river and rode on up another long slope to the high moors. The mountains of the Pennines were blue to the west, under the enormous dome of the sky. ‘How much further?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Twenty miles,’ said de Lisle, and he closed his eyes. Merrivale watched him, knowing what was going through his mind.

  I should have said no, he thought. I should never have accepted him into my service.

  ‘You couldn’t know,’ de Lisle said, as if he was reading Merrivale’s mind. His eyes were still closed. ‘You are not to blame.’

  ‘But I am responsible,’ Merrivale said. ‘I chose to accept him into my service. If I had not, he would still be alive today.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he would have had an accident out hunting, or caught the flux and died. God chooses who he calls, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.’

  ‘I wish I had your philosophy,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Comes with age,’ the old man said. There was a long pause. ‘I regret nothing. But he was the light of my soul. And now, there is only darkness.’

  They rode on across the moor, the rattle of harness the loudest sound. De Lisle reeled a little, and Merrivale reached over and caught his arm. ‘Sir Robert, you should rest,’ he said gently.

  ‘No rest,’ de Lisle said again. ‘The only rest I desire now is the sleep of the grave. It will come to me, presently. But first, there is work to be done.’

  * * *

  The sun was a burning ember on the horizon when they started down the last long slope into the valley o
f the River Tees. Gilbert d’Umfraville dropped back along the column and motioned to Merrivale. The herald left de Lisle under the watchful gaze of his men and trotted out to join him. ‘Wake and I have been talking,’ Umfraville said. ‘What reception can we expect at Barnard Castle?’

  ‘I expect you will be welcomed with open arms,’ said the herald.

  ‘Everyone will know we failed to join the muster. How much else is known?’

  ‘The queen has known from the beginning that you were considering throwing in your lot with Scotland. You, and most of the rest of the nobles of the north. When you left Berwick, I reported that you had disappeared.’

  ‘You believed we had defected.’

  ‘I did. Now, I shall tell the archbishop I was mistaken, and report that also to the king. You and Lord Wake became aware of the treachery of Sir Thomas Clennell. When he invited you to join him, you played along in order to learn more about his plans. Once he was exposed and killed, you marched immediately to join the army.’

  Umfraville watched him. ‘Will the king and queen believe this?’

  ‘They will if I tell them,’ the herald said. ‘And they will know that for the good of the kingdom, they should not want to believe anything else.’

  * * *

  In the farms and villages along the Tees, people ran for cover when they saw the column of battered, bloodied men ride down off the moor, not knowing if they were English or Scots. Ignoring them, the Disinherited pressed on down the river. Lights came into view ahead, the watchfires of the English army camped in the meadows. Barnard Castle, high on its bluff, sparkled with torches. Men turned out to watch them, mouths agape with astonishment, turning to shout the news. ‘The Disinherited! They are here!’ Someone cheered, and in a moment the cheering spread, up and down both banks of the river and along the ramparts of the castle. Merrivale smiled at Umfraville. ‘There is your welcome,’ he said.